


In the Bleak Midwinter

by HartwinMakethMan



Series: Hymns to St. Jude [1]
Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Case Fic, Character Development, F/M, Gen, PTSD, strong women who know what they want, the backstory we all deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-20 07:25:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16132475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HartwinMakethMan/pseuds/HartwinMakethMan
Summary: A Christmas gala hosted by the esteemed Lady Felicia Montague becomes the scene of an attempted murder of Inspector Sullivan, raising questions that only heighten the mystery. Who could want the Inspector dead? Why now? What brought the man to Kembleford in the first place? And who is the mysterious woman hovering so close to Sullivan, so intimate?As the snowy nights draw in, the Inspector's past comes to light, bringing an assassin in from the cold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm binge-ing Father Brown on Netflix and I'm so annoyed at the lack of background and development we got for Kembleford's favorite sourpuss. Now I'm stuck with stupid Inspector Mallory and I don't LIKE IT. Anyway, here's the backstory we all deserved, just in time for Christmas in Kembleford.

 

The bitter winter chill had sunk into the streets of Kembleford by early October, and everyone knew right then and there that it was time to stockpile the firewood and charcoal. When the Advent calendar began to finally tick down, it had been nearly two full months of relentless cold and snow. Every night, with the white flurries outside and frost on the windowpanes, Father Brown just smiled and counted his many simple blessings: hot food to eat, a warm place to lay his head, and even warmer company to pass these short days approaching one of the most glorious celebrations in the year of the Lord. 

 

That particular night in mid December, however, was more than a simple night in with his companions at the presbytery. 

 

The great hall of Montague Manor gleamed in tasteful arrays of gold and red ribbon, wreaths and garlands on every door and bannister. The Christmas tree was so large and girthy that it looked as if it had taken root in the foundation of Lady Felicia’s beautiful holiday home. 

 

Christmas was such a wondrous time of year.  A time of miracles. 

 

It was also a time for Mrs. McCarthy’s plum pudding, and Lady Felicia’s _piece de resistance_ of fundraising: the Annual Christmas Gala, this year in honor of the orphan children of St. Cecilia’s. 

 

The dinner and ball was attended by some 100 guests from many, mostly aristocratic, walks of life: The House of Lords, Parliament, the Lords and Ladies of the Cotswolds. The Father confessed to feeling a bit out of place in the sea of silk dresses and tailored tuxedos, but he consoled himself that God was never out of place. He held his head high, wine in hand, as he scanned the party for familiar faces. 

 

It didn’t take too long, as Lady Felicia came floating through the crowds, a vision in red satin. Mrs. McCarthy huffed a little scoff at his side, but he paid her no mind. 

 

“Father Brown, Mrs. McCarthy, there you are!” Their embraces were short and sweet “I really must thank you for filling in on such short notice, Father. The Bishop was called away just yesterday and telephoned that he would be unable to speak on behalf of the Church tonight.” 

 

“Not a problem at all.” 

 

“And you’re not the only one who stepped up— the Chief Inspector also had a scheduling snafu. I was lucky Inspector Sullivan was in a good mood yesterday when I asked him to stand in.” Lady Felicia gave a lascivious grin, eyes gleaming “He cleans up like a _dream_ , too. A truly dashing gentleman.” 

 

“Leave it to you to notice a thing like that!” Mrs. McCarthy rolled her eyes, long-suffering. 

 

“Oh, there he is. See for yourself— oh Inspector Sullivan!” Felicia gave a winning smile across the ballroom, waving down a reluctant looking man in a sharply pressed tuxedo. He gave a cursory half smile to them all that left the Father wondering whether the Inspector was even capable of a true grin. His soul had always felt troubled, perhaps a bit more than usual that evening. 

 

“Good evening ladies, Father.” 

 

Lady Felicia was right— even Mrs. McCarthy would have to admit it. She was fluttering like a little bird at his side, and he bit down on a laugh. 

 

“Don’t you look dashing, Inspector.” Father Brown greeted “Enjoying the party, I hope?” 

 

“Thank you— lovely evening, yes. As long as there are no crimes committed. You do have a knack for attracting trouble.” 

 

“Well, we’ll all be hoping for a murder-free party, at least!” Mrs. McCarthy piped in, fixing the Father with a gaze like he was about to make one materialize right there in the ballroom of Montague Manor. 

 

Sullivan sipped his drink in lieu of a response, and Father Brown couldn’t help but notice the charming scene over the Inspector’s shoulder that he clearly wasn’t aware he was a part of. 

 

There was a young woman— beautiful, coppery blonde hair swept up from her shoulders in soft pinned curls, her gold and white dress catching the light. She hung back when she locked eyes with the Father, smiling shyly. She had been watching the Inspector intently, with purpose and feeling. 

 

The priest smiled freely and asked “And did you bring a guest with you this evening, Inspector? Special someone?” 

 

The change in his features was subtle— but Sullivan definitely gripped his drink tighter when he gave a small, decisive shake of the head “Just here to do my job.” 

 

Inspector Sullivan was a lost soul. Father Brown had thought that since their first meeting— there was something dark hanging about him, perhaps just more sad. The younger man carried a weight beyond his years, and he hurried to excuse himself at the first opportunity.  

 

Father Brown said a quick prayer as his eyes followed the Inspector in the crowd, a rustle of fabric and a twinkle of gold always in the corner of his eye. 

 

“Such a sour man, isn’t he?” Mrs. McCarthy tsked. 

 

“It’s nothing the right woman couldn’t fix, at least not to my mind.” Lady Felicia bantered back, watching him pass into the crowd for very different reasons than to pray for his soul. 

 

“No man of such caliber should remain unmarried. It’s simply a waste.” 

 

Just as Mrs. M said that, Father Brown watched as the gold dress and woman in it finally approached the Inspector, quiet smile on her lips. She approached from just behind him again, gently rested a hand on his shoulder and said something. Father Brown wasn’t sure what, but judging by Sullivan’s reaction- jerking to attention to face the woman, eyes wide and mouth slack- it wasn’t a remark made to or from a stranger. 

 

Sullivan and the woman stood close together, talking intensely. To the outsider who chose to take it at face value it was just a quarrel, but Father Brown took every second in— their eyes were locked, but every once in a while, their gaze would flick down to lips. They both seemed breathless and dazed, drifting closer and closer as if by magnetism. 

 

Father Brown drifted in thought while Mrs. McCarthy and Lady Felicia debated whether to play matchmaker, discussing why Sullivan wasn’t (but should be) married for several minutes. There was another of those subtle changes in the Inspector’s face from where he and the woman whispered by the Christmas tree— this time bringing about a slight softness to his features. An incremental relaxation for the moment when she brushed his cheek with her fingers before he steeled himself and pulled back— and Father Brown filed it away. 

 

The Inspector walked off from the woman and the tree like nothing had ever happened, straightening his tie and smoothing his lapels. He grabbed another drink off a waiter walking by and took a long swig before beelining straight for Lady Felicia. 

 

“Lady Felicia— excuse me— I was wondering when you wished us all to speak?” 

 

“Well, I was thinking after the raffle, but, we can do it now if it would be better?” She replied, and Father Brown saw on her face that he wasn’t the only one to notice the Inspector’s slightly dazed and breathless demeanor. “I hate to break this up Mrs. M, but I really must get these gents up to the platform to say a few words.” 

 

Bishop Talbot, as trusting as ever, had had a copy of his planned speech expedited to the presbytery just yesterday with the note “This is what you’ll say and nothing more, Brown” scrawled in the top corner. He looked to his left to see that the Inspector was in a similar position, a piece of neatly typed script in his hands. 

 

“Are you quite alright, Inspector?” He dared. 

 

“Quite.” Sullivan replied, still a little dazed, not with any of the heat he usually would have reserved for him. 

 

“That was a lovely young lady you were speaking to— I don’t think I’ve seen her before.” He did his best to seem unassuming, but he supposed that he deserved the hard glare the Inspector managed to level him with. The Inspector had never made things easy for him, Father Brown couldn't expect that to change now. 

 

That was when Lady Felicia stepped behind the podium to start them off, and the Inspector didn’t even glance at him for the duration of their many thanks and speeches for St. Cecelia’s. There was the woman in the gold dress, though, her eyes following Sullivan with a strange gleam. Tears? Rage? Joy? 

 

Questions clouded his mind as he stumbled through his written speech, through stepping back down to join Mrs. McCarthy at the dessert table, watching and waiting as the woman hissed what looked to be angry words to a new man by her side. Tall, blond, and tense. Father Brown turned to look for the Inspector, but he was nowhere to be found in the crowd of tuxedos and silk. 

 

Mrs. McCarthy went on and on about all that Felicia’s chef had done wrong with the Chocolate Gateau and Father Brown tried to listen, but he had rather enjoyed his own slice. He lifted his eggnog to his lips to take a sip, but that was when it all went wrong. That was when a new mystery unfolded in the form of a masked man suddenly running from the side corridor and through the party. He was chased close behind by a slightly staggering Inspector, his tuxedo rumpled and blood pumping from a wound on his palm.  

 

“Stop that man!” He shouted, but by the time the other guests processed the cry, the figure had wrenched open the front door and was lost in the snowy night. 

 

Father Brown was the first person to Sullivan’s side, steadying the wobble as he stood, breath heaving like he’d been in a fight. With jerky movements, he hurriedly undid his tie, revealing the red marks encircling it. A handprint. He gingerly rubbed at his throat with his good hand, grimacing with pain. 

 

“What in Heaven happened, Inspector?” He asked, a helpful guest— the woman in the gold dress, no less— pulling up a chair. Together, they urged him to sit. Surprisingly, Sullivan let them handle him, still staring at the door. 

 

“He tried to kill me.” He finally regained his breath, looking to the woman before he looked to the Father. She was pressing a clean rag into the wound on his hand. “I was coming out of the bathroom when he tried to come up behind me... I caught him at it, and— he only choked me after I knocked his knife out of his hands, I...” He trailed off, letting Felicia push a tumbler of amber liquid into his unoccupied, good hand. “I need to go back over there, he might’ve dropped the knife— got to bag it as evidence, and—“ 

 

“You need to stay right here, Dear— you’ve had a shock.” Mrs. M tried to soothe. 

 

“That's hardly the first person to try to kill me, Mrs. McCarthy, I assure you. I did at one point, go to war.” Sullivan groused, sounding more like his usual self. Something tight in Father Brown’s chest loosened with relief that he never thought he’d feel for that grisly attitude. “Have more police been called?” 

 

“Yes, I believe Sid is in the kitchen doing that just now.” the Father replied. 

 

“Good. Good, they’ll be needing a statement, I suppose.” 

 

“Did you see anything of your attacker?” He pressed, that insatiable curiosity blooming in his veins. Father Brown could only thank the Lord that Sullivan was even still alive. 

 

“I’ll be telling that information to my colleagues at the station, not some _renegade_ _priest_.” Sullivan replied, clipped and cold, but lacking its usual bite. 

 

“ _Martin_!” The gold woman chastised, sounding nearly as scandalized as Mrs. McCarthy that he would talk to a priest like that.  

 

It took several long moments— with Sullivan and the woman having a complex nonverbal conversation with just expressions— before Father Brown realized what he had just heard. He shared a glance with equally dumbfounded Lady Felicia and Mrs. McCarthy. 

 

Inspector Sullivan’s first name was _Martin_. That young woman was chastising the _Inspector_ , that was his _name_. Inspector Martin Sullivan. 

 

Of all the times that he’d prayed for him, worked with him, all the time they spent around one another, Father Brown hadn’t even spared a thought that Inspector Sullivan would have to have a proper Christian name. 

 

The woman in gold had begun cleaning and bandaging Martin’s hand with expert precision. Confident in his level of care, the Father took the short walk over to the corridor. The crime scene. 

 

It was largely unchanged. Whoever the perpetrator was, he’d taken his knife, leaving just a spatter of Martin’s blood on the wall where he’d managed to grab the blade and throw it. No visible footprints or defining pieces of evidence. 

 

There would be no shortage of suspects, surely. Inspector Sullivan had incarcerated many people, no doubt stepped on a few toes to reach his rank. And then there were all the criminals from his London career— and now he knew that Sullivan had served in the war as well. The shorter prospective list was who wouldn’t want to kill the Inspector. 

 

The hallway was clean. Even he couldn’t find a hint of evidence. 

 

When he returned, there were three newcomers hovering by Martin and the gold woman. Father Brown recognized the blond man and Sergeant Goodfellow, but the Inspector taking statements was unfamiliar. 

 

“Alright, Sir. You’re free to go— be cautious, lock the house up tight, nice n proper.” Goodfellow smiled kindly, a look that was returned by a particularly exhausted half smile from Martin. 

 

“Thank you, Sergeant.” 

 

“Beg your pardon, Sergeant, but is it wise that the Inspector go home at all?” Everyone turned to look at him. 

 

“And what would you rather we do, Father?” 

 

“I really must insist that he come to the presbytery— we can watch over him there, in the safest part of town, round the clock watch.”  

 

Sullivan scoffed, looking over his shoulder at him with a withering stare. It hardly cowed Father Brown, but nothing ever did. “I’m not a child, Father, I don’t need to be watched. It’s more likely that this was all a misunderstanding.” 

 

“In the dim light of the corridor, the Inspector could easily have been mistaken for any other younger man here.” The tense blond man chipped in. The woman didn’t seem convinced, though, and opened her mouth to speak. 

 

Sullivan cut her off, though, saying “Is the Mayor alright? We should take a statement, see if any suspicious strangers approached him tonight.” The Sergeant dutifully notated the idea, despite the other inspector shaking his head. 

 

“That’s enough work for tonight, I believe. You’ve had a bloody shock, man. Go home and get some rest.” He placated. 

 

Sullivan looked ready to argue, but simultaneously about ready to pass out right there on the floor. Exhaustion seemed to weigh him down, and the Father filed that thought away. 

 

“At least let someone escort you—“ he started, placing a hand solidly on Martin’s arm. 

 

“I’ll do it.” Piped up the golden woman, finally getting a word in “We-we’ll do it.” She corrected, gesturing to herself and the tense blond man.

 

“I beg your pardon, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Father Brown.” He held out a hand and the woman gave a smile, shaking it firmly. 

 

“So sorry, Father. I’m Eve, Eve Bradbury and this is my older brother, Stephen.” 

 

“And how do you know our favorite Inspector—?” 

 

“If you’re even thinking about investigating, Father, you’ll be in the cells.” Sullivan warned, promptly cutting off their greeting. 

 

Eve looked at him pointedly, jaw set, and said “Martin’s an old friend of mine from London, Father. We’re more than happy to see him home safely.” She turned a dazzling smile full force on the Inspector “So long as that’s alright with you?” 

 

Father Brown rather liked Eve Bradbury. 

 

There was another moment, fleeting and peculiar, where the Inspector seemed to soften. Surprisingly, he said “Yes, I-I suppose. If you must.” 

 

They left in a town car a short while later, disappearing into the snowy darkness. Father Brown watched them go, wheels turning in his mind. 


	2. Chapter 2

He was so tired. His hand throbbed under its bandages. 

 

He could smell her perfume at the gala, in the car, and then as she walked by his side into his cottage, flicking the light on and taking in the neat, well ordered and barely lived in space. She still wore the same perfume: it was light and sweet, like roses and the ocean. 

 

“Lovely little place, Martin.” She gave him a soft smile that left him helpless— exhausted, bleeding through the bandage, faced with her and that bloody perfume for the first time in nearly a year. He felt drunk just looking at her. Her smell and her smile, standing right there in front of him, brought memories wafting in and out of his mind. She could be standing in his London flat, or that godforsaken med tent in France, or letting him walk her to Mass on Summerville Lane before the war blasted their world to pieces. 

 

“Evie, I—“ He wasn’t sure what he’d been planning to say. I’m sorry? I miss you? I had to go? It all seemed so trite. So stupid. He’d didn’t even deserve to breathe her air, let alone her perfume. Yet here she was, taking his bandaged hand and examining it. A little frown wrinkled her features when she saw that the gauze was red, bled through. Martin just never wanted her to take her sweet little hands off of his. 

 

It had been so long, he felt driven toward her like a magnet. Kembleford was painfully lonely— he couldn’t complain, he’d done it all to himself, but still. It wasn’t until then, though, that he even realized that he was lonely. He hadn’t been touched, barely even the brief, friendly type of touch, in months. Nearly a full year, when he put in for his transfer and abandoned his life in London. 

 

Evie was here now, her fingertips making his brain fuzzy just by touching his hand, and he wanted to wrap himself in her arms and disappear. 

 

“Can’t believe somebody tried to kill you...” she murmured, running her thumb feather-light across his wound. 

 

A chuckle bubbled out of him without his consent, a little giddy “Yes, you can.” 

 

“Well, I can’t believe anyone _else_ would want to kill you.” her tone joked, she smiled, but her gaze went from his hand to his face and told a different story. A twinkle of a tear wet her lashes, and he wasn’t giddy anymore. He was the lowest dirt to hurt her like he did. 

 

“Hello? Earth to Eve—“ Martin had honestly forgotten Stephen had come in too. He’d made sure the windows were locked, done a perimeter of the house. Martin and Eve had no clue how long he’d been standing there, watching them stare at each other, a scant 6 inches between their noses “— I’d say the chap’s officially home and safe. We oughta go.” 

 

The idea of her leaving suddenly seemed terrible, unthinkable. He wanted to hold her tight and refuse to let go. Eve seemed to be thinking the same thing, shuffling just slightly closer and testing every fraction of his willpower. 

 

“I... the wound.” She gestured, grasping at straws “it needs re-bandaging. Mar-Martin, where’s your first aid kit?” 

 

“Upstairs bathroom, under the sink.” He replied without a thought, and before he could think to form one, Eve was holding him by the wrist of his injured hand and tugging him up the stairs. 

 

Stephen was hemming and hawing, scandalized at his sister being so familiar with a man. Neither of them paid him any mind. 

 

He had barely known Stephen back in London. He hardly knew any of the Bradburys, outside of what Evie had said about them to him. It was only after... _the_ _Incident_ that he even knew she had brothers. 

 

Thinking of _that_ put ice in his veins. Shame curled like smoke, strangling his lungs when he thought about what had happened to him. The look of that warehouse, the loss of control, the gunfire. The hard gaze of his father when he’d woken up in the hospital. 

 

The desire to push Evie away suddenly felt as strong as his need to pull her closer. He wanted to scream and cry, he wanted to beg her forgiveness— he was so bloody tired. He wanted to hide in this godforsaken cottage and rot away in Kembleford. He wanted to hide his failure.

 

“Martin?” Eve was looking up at him with concern in those wide grey eyes. It hurt. “Let’s go sit down, I’ll wrap up your hand.” 

 

No was not an option, and he let himself be guided to the next closest room. Evie held the first aid kit in the hand that wasn’t leading him, and although he’d never admit it, it felt nice to be led. 

 

Which was how he came to be sitting on the edge of his own neatly made bed across from the love of his life. Evie carefully unwrapped the bloody gauze around his palm, exposing the wound to the air and making him hiss a little with the pain. 

 

“This will sting— consider it your punishment, Darling.” She smirked, holding up the bottle of disinfectant. 

 

It did, indeed, really sting. 

 

He tried to think of something to say, but every time he looked at her, he choked. Every word in the English dictionary seemed to abandon him. 

 

“Eve, you cannot just _be_ in some man’s _bedroom_ —“ Stephen cried when he saw them “C’mon! The car won’t wait forever, and I’m waiting on a phone call.” 

 

“Who’s calling you at 11:32 PM, Stephen?” She furrowed her brow, not even dignifying his comment about her with a response. 

 

“None of your bloody business! I’m pretty sure the Inspector will be just fine after a good night’s sleep. No assassin’s getting in here. C’mon!” He continued. 

 

“No! This is serious, Stephen— Martin would be dead right now if he wasn’t such a well seasoned fighter.” She set her jaw in that way that Sullivan knew was her at her most stubborn. 

 

Stephen scoffed at that, but Sullivan couldn't find the presence of mind to care.

 

“Evie, he’s right.” It took all his effort to say, his heart breaking at the thought of being alone in this god forsaken house again. “You need to head off, I’ll be fine.” 

 

“But Martin, you never know—“ she started, placing a hand on his cheek that made him feel alive— until Stephen had enough and physically pulled her from her seat. 

 

Everything in him tensed, fire filling his belly at the sight of the bastard. 

 

He was about to speak for her, tell Stephen to ease off, but Evie ripped her arm away from his grip, getting right in his face “You do _not_ get to decide anything for me. You oughta keep your hands to yourself, Stephen.” 

 

Stephen huffed all the way down the stairs, throwing a “Evie, now!” Up the stair after her. 

 

She looked at Martin from the threshold, her eyes glistening. 

 

“I’ll be alright, I’ll be safe,” he tried to reassure, but he carefully made sure to stay where he was. If he stepped any closer, neither of them would be able to go anywhere. “How about this— I’ll make one more sweep of the house before I turn in. My gun’s on the nightstand.” 

 

“I can’t believe someone’s after you. I was joking earlier, Martin. You need to know that—“ 

 

“I do. I do, Evie.” He nodded “And you need to go.” 

 

“Don’t get yourself hurt.” There were tears in her eyes, she looked frantic “Promise me.” 

 

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t make any promises. If he knew what was good for her, he’d say it was none of her business. He’d never let her back into this bloody cottage again. 

 

“I promise, Darling.” 

 

It came out without his control. It was a reflex, he supposed, from a simpler time when he had the privilege of calling Eve Bradbury “Darling”. Something in him ached, feeling hollow. 

 

The smile she replied with was dazzling and free and relieved. He was losing control, he was helpless. 

 

“Eve!” Stephen called. 

 

“I’ll be seeing you, then.” was the last thing she said before shoving out of the doorway and out of the cottage. She took part of him with her in the rustle of her skirt and the dimples of her smile. It left him more alone than ever.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

Martin couldn’t sleep. 

 

He changed into pyjamas with trembling fingers, letting the clock tick into the wee hours. It felt like bombs were going off in his head, and he knew it would be another sleepless night. Like many nights before it. 

 

It was about 2 AM when he went around and checked the windows and doors like he’d told Eve he would— as if he had opened any of his windows in the past three months in the frigid cold of the past three bloody months. He was quite surprised, then, to find the back garden window unlatched. 

 

What was more surprising though, was the familiar figure walking in the snowy garden. He latched the window hurriedly, moving in quick steps to the back door. 

 

“Evie! Eve, get in here!” He whispered hoarsely, the cold burst of air from the open door rattling him to the core. 

 

“I couldn’t sleep.” She greeted, as if that was some kind of explanation for wandering around in the middle of winter at two o clock with an assassin on the loose. 

 

“And that’s a reason to— Evie, you’re trembling. Come in.” He shoved the garden door closed, only for the frozen, teeth-chattering and trembling Eve to raise a hand and latch it tightly for him. 

 

“There’s a bloody killer on the loose, Martin. Can’t be too careful.” She at least had the decency to look sheepish. 

 

“So you thought it would be a fantastic idea to make yourself a bloody target?” he was gripping her shoulders— she was shivering, her coat wet with snow, and wearing nothing but trousers and a sweater beneath it. “I’ll make you some tea.” 

 

“I don’t want tea.” She said, grabbing his good hand as he turned away from her “I snuck out of my room at the inn— Stephen won’t notice. I had to see you, Love.” 

 

“You-you crossed half of Kembleford.” He stuttered, his heart full from hearing that old endearment. She looked so small, drawn in on herself to try and get warm. “What in the Devil possessed you?” 

 

“ _You_. Martin, Darling I—“ 

 

Something came over him. He could blame it on exhaustion, or near death experiences, but the simple facts of it were that she was beautiful and he still loved her. He wanted her to be warm, and he needed to hold her. He couldn’t go a moment longer without it. 

 

She met him halfway between the kitchen and the garden door, wrapping her wet, freezing arms around his shoulders and pressing herself flush to him. She shook like a leaf, and he kissed her, urgent and hot. He felt like he could die right there, like his legs would give out and he’d collapse just from the sheer pleasure of her lips on his again. 

 

He squeezed her hips in his hands, not giving a fig about the bandage or the wound. The only person he cared about was back in his arms where she belonged, and he felt complete in a way he hadn’t in... in nearly a year. 

 

Finally pulling away, the only thing he could manage to say was “You’re like ice, Darling.” He deftly unbuttoned her coat and pushed it off her to the floor. 

 

She shivered, and she giggled against his lips. Eve pressed the softest of kisses to the corner of his mouth and he closed his eyes and willed himself not to be dreaming. 

 

“Come upstairs and make me warm, Martin.” She whispered, cold little hands taking his and leading him back up to his room for the second time that night. 

 

Somehow, the least remarkable thing to happen that day had been the assassin in Kembleford.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“And just what are you investigating that required such an early start, Father?” Mrs. McCarthy asked, bundled in her warmest wool scarf and long coat. “You’re lucky I had to get to the butcher’s right at opening time.” 

 

“I just wanted to catch Martin before he had to go into the station— assuming they’re letting him go in at all today.” The Father replied, stepping carefully across the snowy street to their destination. 

 

“Mart-? Oh, the Inspector? Now, Father, he warned you well away from this one and frankly, I agree with him! It’s too dangerous.” 

 

“Danger or no danger, Mrs. M, I can’t rest and potentially let a good man die.” He replied adamantly. 

 

The cottage was really quite nice— neat and tidy, small and back away from the street. Almost completely hidden away from the rest of town, like a fortress that needed defending. Father Brown frowned, his instincts warning of a soul in need. 

 

The door was large and the windows frosty with snow. He raised a hand to knock, but paused when Mrs. M stayed his arm. 

 

“Listen.” She whispered, pointing at the door. 

 

Sure enough, there were voices. Raised, angry voices just on the other side. 

 

“— what I _deserve_? Who the hell are you— who is _anyone_ to tell me what what I deserve?” A woman said, nearly shouting “I _know_ you, Martin, this isn’t what you’re like! You’re the only man to never assume to know what I need better than I do— I _love_ you and you damn well love me too!” 

 

“I’m not who I was before, I’m not the man you knew— oh damnit, Eve! I _can’t_ —“ replied the distinct voice of the Inspector, sounding more tired, more desperate than angry. 

 

“What about last night, then? Go ahead and tell me you don’t bloody love me, I _know_ you’re lying because _that_ was—“ 

 

“ _Last night was a mistake_!” Sullivan finally shouted, making Mrs. McCarthy jump next to the Father. 

 

All four of them were silent. Deafeningly, deafeningly silent. It was in that silence that Father Brown chose to give three clear raps on the door. Mrs. M was wide eyed and stock still with the shock and scandal of it all. 

 

The two of them listened intently as the Inspector spoke again, quieter: “ Eve, back door— quickly.” 

 

“No, I don’t think I will, Martin.” The woman— the lovely Miss Eve Bradbury from the gala, presumably— replied, full volume “I think whoever’s at the door can watch me go with my head held high. I don’t regret a stitch of it.” 

 

“Eve—“ 

 

“You’re a bloody coward, Martin.” Her voice was scathing, if also a bit choked, and the door was wrenched open with a flourish. 

 

Father Brown kept his face carefully neutral as he came face to face with Eve Bradbury, and the false cheekiness melted from her face at the sight of him. One glance at the cross hanging round her neck, and that made sense. The Father could see Sullivan as well, half dressed and weary, pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a migraine on the far side of the room. 

 

“F-Father, what a surprise.” Miss Bradbury forced herself to say. 

 

“Yes, Miss Bradbury, a surprise indeed.” He replied, smiling at her “Is this a bad time? We just wanted to stop by and check in on our Inspector after last evening’s shock.” 

 

“I’ll say it’s quite a bad time— Sodom and Gomorrah, Father!” Mrs. M gasped, finding her voice. 

 

“Obviously it’s a bad time!” Sullivan grumbled “How do you even know where I live?” 

 

“Looked you up in the Police Directory.” Father Brown replied shortly. It was really quite simple. 

 

“On the contrary, I think your timing is perfect.” Eve spit out, a smirk rising on her face “You _were_ born a Catholic, Martin. Perhaps a priest is just the person you need.” the malice in her tone was lost on Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy, who were too busy balking: the inspector was a Catholic? 

 

“Eve!” Martin exclaimed. She just smiled at them, bidding them a good day as she passed, trotting off in the direction of town. 

 

The inspector was still standing in the threshold of the sitting room, combing his hair into position and steadfastly acting as if they weren’t there. He wore nothing but his suit trousers and a singlet undershirt, his braces hanging down and in his stocking feet. 

 

Father Brown closed the door behind him and Mrs. M, closing the cold out. 

 

This prompted a response. 

 

“There’s no need— I’m just out the door, so we’ll all be leaving.” Sullivan said, voice clipped and tense. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. 

 

“I simply had a few questions. About your attacker.” Father Brown said in lieu of a greeting. 

 

That made him look up, his eyes hard and angry “you are _not_ investigating _anything_ , Brown. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for work.” the Inspector all but growled, stepping right past them to the stairs. 

 

Mrs. McCarthy made a wordless exclamation when Father Brown immediately went to follow the other man, stepping through a threshold into a sparse, clean room with an unmade bed. Sullivan was tugging on a white oxford when he turned and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of the two owlish guests in his doorway. 

 

“What the bloody— Get _out_!” He hissed, buttoning the shirt. 

 

“Some lunatic is trying to murder you!” Mrs. M sputtered incredulously “You really intend to go into the station today?” 

 

“Police work stops for no man, Mrs. McCarthy.” He sighed, long suffering. As if he’d just been through all this with someone else that morning. “Besides, according to Sergeant Goodfellow, the current line of questioning is that the Mayor was the intended target.” 

 

“The _Mayor_? But why?” Father Brown parroted, brow furrowing. 

 

“ _Yes_ , Brown. We look similar enough to mistake in low light— not to mention, he’s a higher profile target. Who would want to kill me?” He stated it like there was no possibility that someone could want to kill him for anything other than his station. 

 

“That’s exactly what I intend to find out, Martin.” He replied. 

 

The Inspector’s jaw ticked and his eyes were stony “Don’t call me that.” 

 

Martin was fully dressed now, hat in his un-bandaged hand. 

 

“I believe you’re making a terrible mistake.” Father Brown broke the moment of tense quiet that had fallen over them. 

 

“Well, that’s fine for you, Father. I really must go.” He shepherded them down the stairs and out the front door, grabbing a scarf, coat, and his house keys. 

 

“I’m merely concerned for your safety— Miss Bradbury is as well, I’m sure—“ 

 

“ _That_ is thoroughly none of your business. Get out. Now. You’ll make me late.” He locked his front door and left them standing on the stoop as he stalked back toward the station. 

 

Struck with a thought, Father Brown waited with Mrs. M in the frigid cold until the Inspector was out of sight. Then, he turned around and walked around the cottage to the back garden like he owned the place. 

 

At first, it looked like nothing. 

 

At second glance, however, things were different: footprints. The snow, according to the morning weather on the radio, had stopped at approximately 3 AM, and the prints were only half refilled with snow. 

 

They were large— a man’s. And they stopped just under the back garden window. What clinched it, though, was the cigarette butt. It was just barely covered by the snow, with a distinctive pattern on the filter. 

 

“Father! What are you doing? You’ll catch your death in this weather.” Mrs. M chastised when he finally returned to the stoop and continued straight through to the street that led home. 

 

“Finding a clue.” He replied, holding up the cigarette butt “Miss Eve Bradbury wasn’t Inspector Sullivan’s only guest last night.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

Lady Felicia sure did have a knack for a graceful entrance, and that afternoon was no exception. 

 

The Rolls was parked out front, and she swept into the presbytery like a stray snow angel. Her pale blue coat hadn’t been able to suffice in the unusual chill of that winter, which led to the unveiling of her white wool coat and the beaver trim. Mrs. McCarthy had made a comment about the matching hat and gloves being a tad garish, but that hardly stopped Felicia.  

 

“Good Afternoon all!” She called into the kitchen, Sid on her heels. “Better batten down the hatches, apparently we’re in for quite the storm.” 

 

“‘Ello Father, Mrs. M.” There was a cigarette between his lips while he frantically rubbed feeling back into his hands. 

 

“And I do hope you wiped your boots.” Mrs. M replied, though she softened her harsh look with a cup of hot tea shoved into his cold hands. 

 

“Me? Messy? Who d’you take me for, Mrs. M— honestly.” He rolled his eyes and grinned. 

 

“The storm being discussed on the radio earlier?” Father Brown asked. 

 

“Yes, it’s already snowing, and only supposed to get worse. The wind’s bitter, Father. I’m ready for the sun to return.” She bemoaned, wrapping her gloved hands around her own tea cup. 

 

Cake was set out and they gathered round the table. 

 

“I have some news.” Lady Felicia announced, sitting down beside Father Brown. “Those Bradburys— they weren’t on the guest list. I thought the name sounded strange, so I checked.” 

 

“How’s your suspect pool lookin’, Father? I better not be on it.” Sid leaned against the table and smoked. 

 

“Well, the _non_ -suspect pool might be a shorter list. I believe, however, that if Miss Eve was our assassin, Martin would be dead already.” Father Brown replied mildly. 

 

“And what exactly does that mean?” Felicia raised a brow. 

 

“Who’s _Martin_? Did I miss something?” Sid asked. 

 

“Well, it _means_  that that young missy has been living up to her namesake as the temptation of men, that’s what.” Mrs. McCarthy fired off, ignoring Sid. 

 

“Eve was the companion of the first man in God's creation, Mrs. M. One mistake, no matter how great, doesn’t make her unworthy of deference.” said the Father, looking at her over his spectacles. 

 

“Wait— you mean the _Inspector_ , his high and mightiness, had a _woman_  in his house last night?” Sid was grinning like a loon, eyes sparkling as he rocked onto the back legs of his chair. 

 

“We saw her, right in the flesh!” Mrs. M exclaimed “Shameless!” 

 

“They did clearly have a past, however. They were in a very heated discussion when we arrived.” The Father said, sipping his tea. “I fear our Inspector is in as much emotional and spiritual danger as he is physical.” 

 

“And to think: he’s been a Catholic all this time!” Mrs. McCarthy tsked, shaking her head. 

 

Then there was a set of footsteps in the hall, and Father Brown looked up with a smile. He wasn’t particularly surprised to see Eve there in the threshold of the kitchen. 

 

“Hello, Father— I hope you don’t mind. The door was unlocked. I’d like to speak with you if I could.” She said, eyes downcast in the telltale way of those seeking absolution. 

 

Which made Mrs. McCarthy’s declaration of “Speak of the Devil— I hope it’s an urgent confession you’re after, Missy.” rather a redundant point. 

 

It was then that Eve noticed the other people in the kitchen and promptly blushed up to her ears. 

 

“Miss Bradbury— how about you come in and have some tea?”

 

“That would be nice, yes please.” She had a warm smile, genuine, not hiding tears like it had that morning. Father Brown felt an urgent and sudden need to keep that smile on her face. 

 

He beckoned her to sit on the side unoccupied by the countess and filled a china cup for her. 

 

“Is this where I say: Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been... a _very long time_  since my last confession?” She giggled and took a sip of the tea. “Oh this tea is lovely.” 

 

“I can do a formal confession, if that suits you.” He smiled, hoping that that was where this was heading. 

 

“Oh, that’s unnecessary. I can say it right here, it effects just about all of you. I... I wanted to apologize.” Eve started, fiddling with her cross pendant “For my boldness, I caused a scene. He’s just... Martin, he can be so _infuriating_.” 

 

“You got that right.” Sid groused, smirking. 

 

There was a beat of silence, and Father Brown waited patiently. 

 

“Umm, I also wanted to apologize to you, Lady Montague.” Lady Felicia had just the barest hint of a smile as she beckoned her to go on.  “Well, I did gate crash your party. But I didn’t _know_  that, not until we got to Kembleford. My bloody brother and his tricks— sorry.” her voice was getting stronger, gaining confidence. “By then I knew Martin would be there, though, so I went anyway.” 

 

“Yes, I was quite confused by your presence. I’m willing to forgive, however, if you would give me the card of your dressmaker.” 

 

She chuckled then “Oh really? I wish I could. Sadly, though, I don’t have a dressmaker. I made my dress for last night. This skirt as well— I make a lot of my clothes.” Eve was grinning when Father Brown turned to look at her in surprise. 

 

“Really? Well, you are quite talented, Miss Bradbury.” The gears in his mind were spinning, looking for suspects, but he just couldn’t believe that this woman was capable of attempted murder. 

 

“Yes. A hobby I inherited from my mother— buying second hand drapes and sheets to make clothes. During the crash and the war, it was a handy skill.” Her voice was warm with the memory, and it made both of them smile. 

 

“Well, I would hardly mind commissioning you, Dear. You wouldn’t have to use drapes, either— you can take your pick of the finest fabrics in Europe.” Felicia was smiling. 

 

“Is there _anything_ _else_  you’d like to confess?” Mrs. McCarthy finally snapped, looking every inch the scandalized church lady she was. 

 

“If you want me to apologize for my _sins_ _of_ _the_ _flesh_ , you’re barking up the wrong tree.” she smirked, even winking at her “I wasn’t bluffing when I said I didn’t regret it.” 

 

“Well, absolutely shameless!” She puffed up, arms crossed “Father, you can’t simply—“ 

 

“I’m sure he’s the _devil_  in the sac—“ Lady Felicia cut herself off when Father Brown cleared his throat and Mrs. M simultaneously made an indignant squawk “Sorry, Father.” 

 

“Oh, I think we’ll get along in no time.” Eve said through a laugh. 

 

“And how exactly did you get so close to _Inspector_ _Martin_?” Sid said, lighting up a fresh cigarette.

 

Miss Bradbury’s smile sobered a bit, taking a new tone that Father Brown filed away in his mind. 

 

“We were practically children...” she looked down into her tea like she could see his face looking back at her “He was the constable on the corner, I was the daughter of a doctor. Dad ran a small practice out of our house. I saw Martin every day— just small talk, but he has the most _beautiful_  smile, I’d do anything just to get him to smile.” There was a wistful look on her face, and she sipped her tea. 

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen more than a grimace from the Inspector.” Father Brown stated, and Eve seemed to fade. What was left of her smile disappeared and she shrugged. 

 

“He’s troubled... We were both freer people back then.” The wind howled outside, and they all sipped their tea for a moment “Martin directed traffic and chased after bag snatchers. It was just a little crush. Then, he started walking me to mass on Sundays, and we’d chat and such— he never set foot in that church, Father, don’t look so hopeful.” She diverted, trying to keep the mood light, but anyone could see that the story was about to turn by the look on her face. 

 

“We were just starting to pick up the pace. We were discussing how we felt, what to do about it, how to tell our families...” 

 

“Eve?” Lady Felicia reached out and touched the other woman’s hand with light fingers. 

 

Eve sipped her tea for something to stall a moment before she said: “The Blitz ruined everything. The first of the bombings were _catastrophic_. And not just in the damage they caused to our homes and livelihoods— the loss of life was immense. My and the mental state of all of London seemed to shift. My own home— my _whole_ _block_ — was nothing but rubble. My father died. The war was more of a reality than ever. 

 

“I tried to find Martin, but after a few days and he didn’t come back, I thought...” she trailed off, all teary again. 

 

Silence descended over the kitchen, all but the howl of the mounting winds in the twilight. Even Mrs. McCarthy was sitting with rapt attention to the young woman gripping her teacup with the force to break it. 

 

“I didn’t mean to upset you...” Sid broke the quiet, voice low and sorry “You don’t have to—“ 

 

“Well, she can’t just leave it there! What happened next?” Mrs. McCarthy piped up “You’ll be staying for dinner, too. I’ll fix up something nice.” 

 

“I... T-thank you, Mrs. McCarthy.” Eve replied, as flummoxed by the older woman’s sudden sweetness as Father Brown was proud. “I’d appreciate that.” 

 

“ _Well_ , continue.” was her only reply. 

 

“We, um.. I volunteered in the war as a nurse. Dad taught me a good deal, and I did well. I even enjoyed it, as if any joy can come from war. I was making my rounds at a field hospital I was stationed at in France, and I turned the corner to see a new patient in bed #107.” 

 

Her smile was blinding and tears were in her eyes, like she was seeing him all over again, and it didn’t really need to be said. Everybody knew who it was. But, Father Brown couldn’t resist the temptation to say it: 

 

“Martin.” 

 

She nodded “He hadn’t died, he hadn’t left me— he’d told his father about us, said he had to find me... that man is a _beast_. Always has been... He forced him to enlist, said it would get me out of his head...” she stopped herself then, looking at them all. “Oh, that wasn’t mine to tell— don’t ever mention his father to him. I should.. I should stop, the rest is.. private.” 

 

The Father wanted to press on, absorbing the story ravenously, trying to fit the puzzle of the Inspector into place. _Understand the man, and you’ll understand the killer_. 

 

“You don’t need to say anything you’re uncomfortable with.” the Father patted the top of her hand as he stood, clapping his hands together as if shaking the dark mood of the kitchen away. “What’s for dinner, Mrs. M, and how may we be of service?” He grinned, and it made Eve smile. 

 

From there on, the afternoon became evening and slipped into darkness. 

 

Father Brown kept a close eye on Miss Eve throughout dinner. She was charming and witty, and her and Lady Felicia were a dangerous combination— the trouble they could get up to! Martin would have to arrest them both! Even Mrs. M seemed to have softened to the young woman, letting her chop the onions with her best knives. 

 

The white swirls of snow made even the steeple of St. Mary’s invisible, and the blasting wind rattled the presbytery windows. The storm was not a disappointment, and it didn’t appear to be letting up any time soon. 

 

“Sid, is the Rolls parked on the road?” He queried, the hour only getting later and the storm stronger. 

 

“Nah, I left her round at St. Mary’s— why?” 

 

“Good. I don’t want anyone trying to brave this weather.” He explained, pointing out to the mess outside. 

 

“Then what are we to do?” Eve piped up, a glass of wine poised in her hand. “My brother’ll be worrying.” 

 

“We’ll all stay here tonight.” The Father explained “You’re welcome to try the phone, Miss Bradbury, but the lines are most likely frozen beyond functioning. I’ll set up the spare bedroom and the blankets, and we’ll be all set to have a safe, warm evening.” 

 

It didn’t take them terribly long to reach a sleeping arrangement, but Father Brown had to admit to being a bit less helpful than he could have been. Questions and conjecture swirled in his head like the snow outside, and the feeling that he was only seeing part of the picture was acute and irritating. 

 

“Miss Bradbury?” He asked, just the two of them. He hoped to have better luck without an audience. “May I ask a question?” 

 

“Of course, Father— but you won’t be guaranteed an answer.” She smirked, narrowing her eyes at him. He just smiled back and ushered her to sit beside him. 

 

“You have known our dear inspector for a long time, Eve. Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt Martin? From back in London?” 

 

The young woman huffed a sigh, shaking her head “You know, he did mention that you were—“ 

 

“Helpful?” 

 

“ _Meddlesome_. Why do you need to know this? The intended target was apparently the Mayor.” He looked at her— the furrow of her brow and her concerned frown. She was smart, and the Father knew he could be frank with her. 

 

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” 

 

They shared a glance and she shook her head. 

 

“I thought it was a bit of a stretch when he told me this morning.” she confessed “I just didn’t want to think...” 

 

“Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt him?” He repeated the question. 

 

“Father, you don’t become a DCI of the London Metropolitan Police without making a few enemies. Not to mention all the criminals he put away...” 

 

“Exactly. But there’s no reason for a political opponent to strike now, and how would a London criminal find out Martin is in Kembleford? Which leaves—“ 

 

“You think it’s personal.” She finished for him, nodding sagely. 

 

“Eve, you are quick as a whip.” He complimented “Which is why I think you can help me: Why did Martin leave London? Kembleford is a significant step down— it doesn’t follow then, that such an ambitious man at the peak of his career would take such a demotion without reason.” 

 

“Like running from something?” Her voice seemed sharper, angrier, and he looked over to see her jaw clenched, looking down at her hands. “Martin has plenty to run from, I guess. But it’s not my place to tell. That’s his baggage, not mine-- he's made that clear enough.” 

 

Father Brown let out a long breath through his nose, trying to hide at least some of his disappointment. 

 

“Even if his life is at stake?” He said, emboldened by the sense of purpose he felt coursing through him at the opportunity to save not one, but two troubled souls (three, if the would-be assassin was to be counted). Eve looked over at him, and he hated the fear on her face. 

 

“You think he’s still in danger, Father?” She asked, but they both knew the answer to that. 

 

The Father took her hand and nodded “An assassin rarely stops before the deed is done, Eve.” 

 

“Back in London, his f—“ 

 

Both of them were cut off by a sound. It was almost like the sound of someone at the door, but soft. So soft at first, that the Father thought it was just snow and wind. 

 

Then, it came again. It was loud, though, and couldn’t be anything other than a knock. Eve nearly jumped out of her skin, and they both leapt to their feet. It was as if someone were throwing all of their strength into pounding on the wood of the door. 

 

“Who could possibly be out in this weather?” Mrs. McCarthy came walking in “They’ll catch their death.” 

 

Nothing, though, could have prepared them for what they found when they opened it. 

 

A half frozen, snowy body nearly fell straight into the Father’s arms, the only sign of life being the small “oof” and the groan as he landed. 

 

“ _Martin_!” cried Eve, rushing up close and tilting up the individual’s face to look at her, knocking off the snow covered hat on his head. Her cry brought the others in the house running. 

 

Lady Felicia screamed. 

 

It was Martin Sullivan, half dead from the cold and shaking like a leaf— the hilt of a knife sickeningly projecting out of his chest. 


	4. Chapter 4

Father Brown tugged the freezing man in from the wall of snow and wind, closing and locking the door behind him. 

 

He and Sid managed to half-drag him to the fire in the sitting room, seating him in the armchair just beside it. Eve was just behind them, calling for a first aid kit and a basin of hot water. 

 

“For heaven’s sake— I’ll put on some tea!” Mrs. McCarthy gasped, clutching at her heart. 

 

The first order of business was to get the Inspector as warm and dry as possible. However, the knife lodged in him had effectively sealed him into his soaked through coat and suit. Eve was a step ahead of them all, kneeling beside the chair and stroking his hair off his face. She gave him a gentle slap on his pale, colorless cheek. 

 

He managed to blink into focus on her and she smiled reassuringly. 

 

“ _There you are_ — Martin, I need to assess your injury. What I need you to do is stay awake, alright? Keep looking right at me, Love.” She stroked his cheek and brought both her hands to his chest. His coat and all layers of his suit were unbuttoned in record time, and she slipped her small hand under the layers. Martin trembled uncontrollably, the cold seeped deep into his bones. 

 

Anyone could see that it was too high to hit a lung and too far over to have punctured the heart. Quite a bad shot, to be frank, but that was a blessing to Father Brown. And especially to Eve and Martin, who seemed actively pleased to have her so close. He was pale, drenched with melting snow right through the suit he’d left the cottage in that morning. Eve stroked back his hair with her lips pursed, focused on her task. 

 

He cried out a few times as Eve prodded around, and she comforted him quietly. Everyone was holding their collective breath. The only noise in all of the presbytery was Martin’s stuttered cries of pain and Eve trying to calm him. 

 

Her hand came away bloody, but she still looked somehow relieved. 

 

Father Brown elected to break the silence in lieu of feeling useless “You have, no doubt, seen injuries like this in the war...” 

 

“I can help him, but it’s not gonna be painless...” the young woman’s jaw was clenched tight, her clean hand still brushing Martin’s hair back absently. 

 

“D-d-do what y-you must... Ev-Evi-ie...” Sullivan managed through his chattering teeth. His hazy gaze hadn’t moved from her for a second. 

 

She nodded, her eyes clear and alert. A woman on a mission. 

 

“Where’s the first aid kit and that water?” She looked around to Lady Felicia, who had put the both of them on the side table, towels as well. Eve breathed a long sigh, centering herself. “Father, I need you and your friend to each take a side—“ she gestured to the Inspector’s shoulders “— and keep him still as you can. The wound’s deep, but too high. No organs or arteries hit, if I’m right.... Best bet is to take it out and get him warm and dry before hypothermia sets in.” Satisfied that she was understood, Eve cupped the Inspector’s cheek again “Martin, can you hear me?” she looked him in the eyes, speaking slowly and clearly. 

 

“Y-Yes...” He managed on an exhale, gritting his teeth as he tried to sit up straighter. 

 

“ _Oi!_ Bad idea, Love.” She replied, placing a hand on his chest “This is what’s about to happen: I’m going to remove the knife— If I’m right, and we both know I usually am,” she continued, holding the inspector’s gaze steadily. Confident. “then this knife hasn’t hit a single vital artery. I’m going to remove it, bandage it as best I can, and then get you out of these wet things.” 

 

“Are we sure the nearest doctor is too far away? This girl can’t just go pulling out swords like she’s King Arthur!” Mrs. McCarthy hissed to Lady Felicia in the doorway. 

 

Eve turned and glared, about to speak, but surprisingly, Martin managed to level her with his own stare first:

 

“I-I-I t-trust her..” he stumbled, still trembling. 

 

Eve smiled, eyes filling with tears again. She stroked his hair off his forehead and breathed out on a long sigh “You _bloody_... Now look who’s been wandering around in the cold with a maniac on the loose.” She huffed a wet laugh. He managed to roll his eyes despite the pain. 

 

“Jus’ g-get-t i-t out-t...” He slurred, eyelids drooping. He was shivering less and it seemed to heighten Eve’s concern. 

 

“Martin? Martin stay awake, Love—” 

 

Sid and the Father dutifully took their positions beside the armchair where Martin’s head was starting to loll, eyes fluttering. 

 

Father Brown focused on just the man in front of him, just like Eve. The young woman’s face was tense and alert, entirely consumed by her training in the war, the Father surmised. 

 

“Stay with us, Martin— everything’s going to be alright, just stay _awake_!” The Father slapped him across the cheek, just enough to be jarring. 

 

Eve, however, had a different idea, grabbing his face and turning him to look at her. 

 

“Love, look at me—“ she cut herself off, cupping his cheek and pressing their lips together without preamble or explanation. 

 

“Helluva way to get that done..” Sid muttered, awestruck. 

 

He tensed in surprise under Father Brown’s hands on his shoulders, holding him still. And then, all rigidity left him, pliant under Eve’s familiar lips. That was when she pulled out the knife, quickly and carefully. Martin cried out against her lips, and she pulled away just enough to shush him, applying necessary pressure to the wound with a gauze pad. 

 

“And is _that_  standard medical practice?” Mrs. McCarthy asked, reappearing with an armful of clothes.

 

“It’s actually quite brilliant—“ interjected Father Brown “the kiss isn’t only a distraction, but it makes the muscles relax. She makes him feel safe, and it’s easier to remove.”  

 

“I brought you some spare pyjamas and a cardy of the Father’s,” Mrs. McCarthy continued on a long suffering sigh “they’ll hang on him a bit, but they’re warm.” 

 

“Thank you— Father, could you help me get his coat and suit off?” 

 

Wordlessly, he slipped his hands under the open collar of the coat and jacket and shirt, felt the frigid, clammy skin of his neck, and helped Eve ease him forward and back. He cried out, tensing as they maneuvered him. 

 

“I’ll bandage you up, it’s alright....” she muttered in his ear, teeth gritted together with the pain. He was shivering less, and Eve looked up to meet the father’s eyes. “D’you have a bedroom I can put him in? Or someplace with a touch more privacy?” 

 

They put him in the spare bedroom so they wouldn’t have to drag the poor man up the stairs. 

 

Poor dear Martin. It was a miracle he was still alive, let alone conscious. 

 

By the time the room was fixed up and ready for them, Eve had expertly cleaned and bandaged the wound. Father Brown wasted no time when Eve requested his help, and slung the Inspector’s good shoulder around his. He managed to get him into the warm bedroom with little fanfare, but Sullivan barely breathed until he made contact with the mattress. His face was drawn and pale. 

 

“I’ll, um... I’ll get us all some tea, shall I?” the Father excused himself, giving Eve and Martin the privacy to change his clothes and ensure that he was as comfortable as possible. 

 

“Comfortable” was a relative term, taking into account being stabbed for the second time in two days and walking halfway across Kembleford in the middle of a blizzard.

 

“Oh Father, is he alright?” Lady Felicia piped up as soon as he entered the kitchen. 

 

He nodded noncommittally “He has had a very long night, indeed, Lady Felicia. But, he should make a full recovery with the right help.” 

 

“You mean _Eve’s_  help...” Sid smirked. 

 

“You really left them alone in the _presbytery bedroom_? After what we witnessed this morning with our _own eyes_?” Mrs. McCarthy spun around from where she’d been filling the teapot by the stove. 

 

“We witnessed an _argument_  this morning, Mrs. McCarthy.” The Father corrected gently. 

 

“Besides, the Inspector’s hardly in a fit state.” Felicia chimed in. “Anyway, Father— what’s next? Who do you think did it?” 

 

“I couldn’t possibly be sure yet. I do, however, have a large number of questions for our dear Sullivan.” He then reached into the pocket of his cassock, pulling out the cigarette butt he’d found under the window of the Inspector’s back garden. “I could use your help, though, Sid. Any idea what brand of cigarette has this design on their filters?” 

 

Taking a puff of his own smoke, Sid said “Could be Red Ladies or that... um, Lucky Thoroughbred? I think they’re called? Either way, tastes foul. Where’d you find it?”  

 

“Back garden at Sullivan’s cottage. Some footprints, as well...” a thought struck him, and Father Brown hurriedly tucked the evidence back into his cassock. “Three cups of tea, Mrs. M— I’m sure the Inspector could use a little something to warm him up.” 

 

————- 

 

By the time he entered the bedroom, Martin was sitting stiffly on the mattress, swamped in the Father’s clothes. Eve sat perched on the edge of the bed, re-bandaging yesterday’s gash on his palm. The Inspector didn’t pay either of them any heed at all, staring instead at the knife on the bedside table. It was still coated in his own blood. 

 

“Hello Father.” Eve smiled tightly as she finished. 

 

“Excellent dressing, Miss Eve.” He smiled. 

 

He presented the tea to her. 

 

“Thanks. They’re not much, but they’ll do until the weather lifts.” 

 

The Inspector was still unfocused, his gaze fixed on the bloody knife. He jerked violently when the Father laid a hand on his shoulder, pulled from his revelry. He cried out when he tugged his injury and Father Brown brought his hand back to his side. 

 

“Apologies, Martin. I thought this might take the last of the chill off...” he said softly, holding the Inspector’s gaze and studying him. 

 

He looked haunted. His brown eyes had been wide and wild for the moment the Father touched him, and the shock of whatever had happened was still written clearly on his face. The circles under his eyes were deep and dark, like someone who hadn’t slept in a long while. 

 

He pressed the cup into his uninjured hand and wrapped his hand over the other man’s until he knew he wouldn’t drop it. 

 

“I thought I told you not to call me that, Father.” was not what he expected him to say. Apparently getting stabbed hadn’t brought about much change in his stubbornness, but there was no heat in his words. He sounded tired, his voice hoarse.  The Father didn’t try to hide his disappointment and sat himself in the chair near the bed. 

 

“I was hoping you could tell me what happened to you...” Father Brown stated, hands clasped in his lap as he braced himself for Sullivan’s reply. 

 

“I’ll be happy to tell the Sergeant once the weather clears, but I won’t be telling anything to you.” At first it seemed to take all his effort to get the words out, but the tea did its job in strengthening him. 

 

Father Brown called on his reserves of patience. 

 

“Well, at this point— as I’m sure you’ve noticed— the weather isn’t permitting of a police presence. I’ve had Sid lock all the doors and windows, and you’ll be safe here, but in order for us to help you—“ 

 

“I don’t need— the investigation is in _hand_ , Brown.” 

 

“Why would you come here if you didn’t want my help?” The Father replied, sipping his tea. 

 

Martin opened his mouth and closed it with a click, stumbling to speak before he managed “Closer than the Surgery.“ 

 

“So you were attacked by the station?” He replied, recalling that the Inspector’s cottage was reasonably far from everything, but especially the presbytery. 

 

“No, I— Yes. _Father_. Stop investigating.” Sullivan hissed. 

 

“Whoever attacked you must’ve known your schedule— or followed you.” Eve said, glancing over at the Father. 

 

“My thoughts exactly, Miss Eve.” 

 

“This is none of your concern, Eve.” Martin ground out like it hurt to say, picking at his bandaged palm and staring at the knife again. 

 

Eve looked like she’d been slapped. 

 

“ _Yes_. Yes it is, Martin. _You_  are my concern, always.” She managed to say, her voice not wobbling only through willpower alone. “Don’t do this to me. You bloody _coward_ , don’t you dare...” 

 

“Thank you for your help, Miss Bradbury..” Martin continued, digging his fingers into the white bandage until it started blooming in red. 

 

“I... You know what I don’t understand?” her eyes were bright, jaw clenched. She stood, whirling around to look down on him then, as if Father Brown wasn’t there at all “Why you put in for a transfer and _left_  me. The nightmares and the screaming and the panic, we've always _helped_ each other! I know this isn’t _you_ , Martin—“ 

 

“Please just _go_ —“ 

 

“No! No, I _won’t_. After all we’ve been through— I _know_  this is about The Raid, I _know_  this is some bizarre penance for something that wasn’t your fault— but you know what I don’t get, _Martin_? I don’t get how you could just _leave_. Is that really what all this melancholic, Lone Ranger _bullshit_  is about?! Is that your self prescribed punishment for being a human being— you can’t control _everything_ , Martin!”

 

Eve was yelling, the entire house silent except for her unloading something she’d clearly been thinking for quite some time.

 

Father Brown was forgotten, sitting in the chair with his tea going colder by the second. He sensed that it was time to intervene, though, when Martin caught his eye with a look so ashamed and embarrassed that he might as well have been a scolded little boy. 

 

“Eve, I think that’s enough—“ he stood, trying to take her by the arm, but she jerked away. 

 

“No— you don’t understand—!” 

 

“I understand that you have a right to your anger, but now is not the time!” 

 

“Then when is? You have no _idea_ —“ Eve continued, stumbling around the words in her rage. 

 

“Eve, Eve, contain yourself!” Father Brown forced her to turn, look at him instead of Martin. Her eyes were fiery and brimming with tears, a high flush on her cheeks. “We will figure it all out, go collect yourself. Mrs. McCarthy and Lady Felicia are in the kitchen, go. I’ll join you in a moment.” 

 

She was at door in a blur, not looking back as she slammed it behind her. 

 

Martin clenched his jaw, pinching the bridge of his nose like he had that morning. They spent a moment in silence before Father Brown decided to try again. 

 

“That’s the second time within 24 hours that I’ve heard you two fighting, but she’s the only one who seems angry. What happened? Why have you resigned yourself to this fate? You _love_  this woman.” 

 

Martin hung his head, digging his thumb into his red palm again. The Father reached out and gripped his wrist, still cold. It made him wrench his arm out of his grip and tug his new wound again. 

 

But it made him pick his head up and look at him, too. It was out of place to see the Inspector with red rimmed, tearful eyes. Father Brown gently took the other man’s injured hand, and refused to let go. 

 

“Martin.” He said again. 

 

“ _Please_ , Father, I’m so tired..” he finally said, his voice choked. 

 

“Tired of what?” 

 

“ _Everything_. I don’t know what to do...” 

 

“About _what_?” He asked again, curiosity overtaking his patience. 

 

Martin just shook his head, looking away to the knife on the table. 

 

“Anything you tell me is in the deepest confidence. Martin, what was The Raid? What happened?”  

 

He shook his head again, and sat up straight with a deep breath. “It’s nobody’s business but mine. I’m sorry for my behavior, Father. It must be the shock.” He blinked rapidly against the tears until he seemed almost as if nothing had happened. 

 

Father Brown was flummoxed. He opened his mouth and closed it again with a click, unsure how to proceed after watching someone he thought he knew display such disturbing and unhealthy behavior. 

 

After a long moment, the father thought to speak, but he was cut off. 

 

“Don’t. Father, just, for once in your life, leave it be.” 

 

“I was simply going to ask how bad the pain was.” He already knew the answer— Sullivan was stiff, holding his weight awkwardly. 

 

“I’m fine, thank you.” 

 

“Here— this is a painkiller. Only supposed to take it when the gout gets too unbearable. Please, take it. It’ll help you get some rest.” He held out the pill. Sullivan didn’t even spare it a glance. “When was the last time you had a good rest?” 

 

Martin huffed a humorless laugh “1942.” 

 

Father Brown only nodded sagely. “You’ve been in Kembleford for nearly a year, and I didn’t realize until the party last night that I didn’t even know your name. Once all is said and done, I hope we can be friends.” 

 

“Go, Father.” 

 

Father Brown placed a hand on Martin’s good good shoulder and gave a squeeze, leaving the pill on the bedside table as he turned to leave. In the threshold, though, he looked back.

 

“Miss Bradbury is a remarkable young woman. You’re a lucky man, Martin. Look into your heart before you waste that.” 

 

He left and closed the door behind him before the Inspector could retort.


	5. Chapter 5

 

The presbytery was shuttered and bolted from floor to ceiling at that point, and the wind howled through the streets. Father Brown found the others in the kitchen. Eve Bradbury was seated at the table with a cup of cocoa in her hands. She was still wiping her eyes, Lady Felicia rubbing her back in slow circles. 

 

“Oh Father Brown! Perfect timing.” She smiled. 

 

“How is the bloody fool?” Eve asked, voice still thick. 

 

Father Brown just took a seat across from the two women. “Martin has been a lost soul for a long time, Eve. I gave him something to help him rest.” 

 

She tried to scoff, but it sounded more like a sob “Probably didn’t take it... he’s far too _arrogant_  to accept anybody’s help...” she hissed a long exhale through her gritted teeth “He’s not usually so...” 

 

“Bloody unreasonable?” Sid finished. 

 

“Obstinate might be a better choice.” said Lady Felicia. 

 

“A man living without God, more like.” huffed Mrs. McCarthy. 

 

“No one lives without God, Mrs. McCarthy. It only depends on who is willing to let Him in.” Father Brown declared, silencing his companions with a look. He turned his attention back to Eve. 

 

“I was going to say angry. He’s always been... straight laced. Always liked to control the order of things, _loves_  a good rule book. But not like this— he’s just so _different_.” She shook her head, sipping her cocoa and staring over at the bedroom door. 

 

“Miss Eve, I believe the two of us were cut off earlier. You were going to tell me of anyone you knew who’d want to hurt Inspector Sullivan.” He prompted. 

 

Eve gave a tiny, sad smile “And I believe I told you that you can’t climb the ranks of the London constabulary without breaking a few eggs, Father.” She said wryly. 

 

“What about _his_ father? You mentioned him.”

 

“There was certainly no love lost there, but I... I just can’t see him going so far out of his way to hurt Martin— all the way in Kembleford?” She shook her head “Arthur Sullivan was a domineering brute, but he and Martin were barely speaking at all by the time he... transferred.” 

 

“Why was that?” Sid asked from the corner. 

 

Eve chewed her lip, brow furrowed “There was.. there was an incident. After, it sounded as if Arthur was washing his hands of him..”

 

“Is this _The_ _Raid_  you were talking about earlier?” Father Brown supplied. Eve went pale. 

 

“Martin was.. compromised during a police raid on a gang in London. Called themselves _The_ _Regiment_. Mostly ex-servicemen who came home to rubble after the war, disenchanted and angry at their country—“

 

Something clicked then, and Father Brown perked up “That explains it. The knife!” He exclaimed. 

 

Everyone looked at him like he’d gone loopy. 

 

“Sullivan could barely take his eyes off that knife— I wrote it off as shock, but it wasn’t. He recognized it as military!” He paused, gears shifting and turning in his mind, putting all the pieces together. “Eve, do you smoke?” 

 

Eve shook her head, pulling a face at the off topic question “Both of my brothers, but not me.” 

 

He started to nod, everything slipping into place, but then— “ _Both_?” 

 

“I had two older brothers. Terrence and Stephen— Terrence was what you’d call a lost soul as well, I suppose. He was part of The Regiment.. died after The Raid.” 

 

And _there_  it was, it all made sense. Eve seemed to see it just a moment after him, a look of horror coming over her face.

 

“You don’t think... Father, during Lady Felicia’s party, Stephen wasn’t with me when Martin was attacked.” her eyes were wide “I led him right to him, I was _so_ _selfish_ , so—“ 

 

“Don’t blame yourself, Dear. How were you to know?” Mrs. McCarthy comforted, patting her hand. 

 

“It was all such a _terrible_  business when Terrence died, and Martin didn’t want anyone to know—“ 

 

“ _Eve_!” a familiar voice barked from the corridor. “Eve, stop talking.” the Inspector was leaning in the threshold of the presbytery kitchen, hair flopping over across his forehead and his left side  held delicately. 

 

“If it saves your life, I’ll do it. I don’t care if you hate me for the rest of your damned  _life_ , I’m entirely unwilling to let you die— especially not for the sake of your _pride_.” Evie fired back. 

 

“Martin, have a seat.” The Father said, quieting Miss Bradbury with a stern look “We believe we’ve solved your case.” 

 

“My _case_. A bunch of amateurs, the lot of you.” Martin groused, dropping into the chair furthest from Eve and Father Brown. 

 

Eve rolled her eyes so hard, the Father thought they might pop out “Shut up, you damn well know you’re grateful for the Father’s help.” 

 

Father Brown ignored both of them, and spoke up just as Martin opened his mouth to retort. 

 

“What can _you_  tell us about Terrence Bradbury?” he asked “Since you are so reluctant to let Eve tell it..” 

 

“That’s not..” Martin was quite pale then, the instant he heard Terrence’s name “It can’t be him, he’s... You mean _Stephen_?” he exclaimed, incredulous “He... I have to admit, I wondered. _That_  was why my window was unlatched last night. He went around and checked the windows after the party— one wasn’t closed... of course, I haven’t opened a single window in three months. It felt wrong, but I was...”

 

There was a moment of quiet then. Martin looked at Eve, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. She smirked into her cup of cocoa. 

 

“Distracted?” Lady Felicia supplied, brow raised. 

 

He blushed and nodded. 

 

“ _Terrence_ , Martin.” Father Brown repeated, voice brooking no argument. 

 

He opened his mouth and closed it again with a click. There was a look on his face entirely unfamiliar to Father Brown with regard to the Inspector— insecurity. Sullivan eyed all of them one by one from under his lashes, thinking he was secretive, and Father Brown realized with a nod what Martin was trying to tell him. 

 

“Could we have a touch of privacy?” The priest said to the room, keeping his tone light. 

 

Sullivan rolled his eyes and grimaced at the ground at the Father’s indiscretion, while everyone took the hint and hurried off. The only one who tried to stay was Miss Eve, a quizzical little frown on her face. 

 

“Miss Eve, if we could...” 

 

“It’s alright, Father.” Martin said, sounding deflated “It’s nothing she doesn’t know...” 

 

She slid over a seat, not going to touch him, just being there. A comforting presence. 

 

“It was... it was my fault.” He started, the air feeling heavy. All was quiet except for the Inspector, looking down and picking at his bandage again while he talked “Ever since the War, I’ve been _changed_. Like something’s broken. Can’t sleep— nightmares. Some days, I was too jittery, too unfocused to work properly... shouldn’t have been working at all but, I _needed_  my work. Structure of it reminded me of the military— so well ordered and simple.” He hadn’t looked up from the tablecloth once, unable to look them in the eyes. 

 

“I needed things to be simple. But, the actual crimes in London are rarely that straightforward. When _The_ _Regiment_  came across my desk, I... my father pushed me, I pushed myself. Eve supported me.” His eyes flicked up to hers for a second, before going back to the tablecloth and bandage “It consumed me. By the time The Raid came around, I was barely sleeping, the War was making me bloody _insane_... it hadn’t ever been so bad, but with them being ex-servicemen... it all came back, and I..” 

 

He trailed off, scrubbing his good hand down his face, and Father Brown remembered him saying _Please Father, I’m so_ _tired._ The memory made his heart ache. The Inspector looked older than his years, mouth twisted against his secrets. 

 

He moved to sit beside the hunched figure of Inspector Sullivan. 

 

“How did Terrence die, Martin?” He prompted. 

 

He took a slow breath, and released it, sounding resigned “One moment, everything was fine— I was finally gonna get them on that raid, take in their leader, Everett Bayler, and anybody else we could get.. but once the bullets started, it was.. I lost my mind, I had no control. I was back in France, I thought I was back in battle, I was so _confused_.” Father Brown took his hand. Whether the Inspector noticed or not was unclear, but he didn’t shake him off like before. 

 

“What a terrible ordeal for you, Martin. I'm so sorry... Did you shoot?” He asked calmly, thinking he knew the answer. 

 

Martin shook his head “Dropped my gun— I overlooked something: cyanide pills. They all had them, Bayler was already _gone_  and they all just started dropping.” He was trembling, and Father Brown squeezed the hand under his. 

 

“That must’ve been very difficult to see.” He said, softly. 

 

“Oh please— i was _barely_ _there_... busy trapped in my head... I _lost control_  and all those people died— it destroyed my case.” His voice was thick and choked on tears. “And then... I had to get out. To get away from my father, my _failure_.. I transferred to Kembleford.” he breathed another long sigh, looking exhausted as he wiped his eyes and, much more gentle than before, removed his hand from the Father’s grip. “Are you happy now? Get your confession, Father?”

 

Father Brown frowned “No one is happy, Martin. Especially not in the face of your suffering... I want to bring you peace, not—“ 

 

“You left _me_ , too.” Eve piped up, drawing the attention of the two men “Why didn’t you _talk_  to me, Martin?” 

 

He spent a moment just looking at her, finally without any reservation or excuse. His eyes were sad and ashamed, but there was _love_  there. It lifted the years off of him.

 

“Evie, I... your brother is _dead_  because of me—“ he started “I couldn’t even _look_  at you, knowing what _my_  lapse of judgement caused!” 

 

“ _Lapse_ _of_ _judgement_? Is that what Arthur called it?” She fired back, finally showing herself to be more desperate than angry. She reached forward and cupped his face “Look at me _now_ , Love. You know we weren’t close, he was so much older than me. I barely knew Terrence... why did you leave me behind? You think I want to stay in _London_? With the poverty and the scars of the blitz?” 

 

“Yes, this is about guilt and shame. But it’s also about control, isn’t it Martin?” The Father surmised “Your perceived transgression means that you don’t deserve her—“ he could see Eve getting riled up again “Now, now, Miss Eve... Martin, I need you to know that, with all of my heart, I believe you are a good man. You deserve happiness, you deserve to be with the woman you love. Let this be your first lesson in Catholicism: there is a difference between penance and suffering— by denying yourself your love, you damage yourself. You damage the one you love. You _deserve_  happiness, and the War, your nightmares, and your _father_  can’t take that from you. God wants that for you.” 

 

“I don’t believe in God.” Was the Inspector’s only reply. The Father nodded sagely. He knew that. 

 

“Yes, but He believes in you.”

 

He stood to leave the lovers in peace, squeezing the inspector’s shoulder just like he had earlier. Eve was still cradling his jaw with a hand, and they were just _looking_  at each other. Martin leaned in and kissed her, just a press of lips at the edge of her smile.

 

“‘M sorry, Darling...” he mumbled. 

 

“Yes, well, don’t do it again..” she replied.  

 

Sensing his work was done, Father Brown smiled, and softly said “We’ll fetch the Sergeant in the morning— in the meanwhile, we should all be getting some rest. It’s been a long night.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

They should have assumed that it wouldn’t be like that. It rarely was, in Kembleford. Even Father Brown, who was expecting that they might have a visitor through the study window (that he had unlatched) had miscalculated the exact timing. 

 

The wind had stopped and all seemed peaceful. 

 

Martin and Eve were sitting close, pressed side by side in the aftermath of the events of the thoroughly exhausting day and night. She was pursing her lips at the bandages he’d ruined, he was stroking her cheek and tucking her hair behind her ear. Father Brown could still see them from the hall when he walked to the sitting room to find a highly unwelcome sight. 

 

Sid’s nose was bleeding, most likely from the butt of the gun currently being pointed at Lady Felicia. A blond man with a vicious snarl on his face looked back at Father Brown. 

 

“You must be Stephen— I don’t believe we ever properly met.” He stated, hands up in a gesture of peace “I'm Father Brown.” 

 

“Give me the Inspector, or your precious Lady Montague gets a bullet.” he spat back. A spike of terrible fear thrilled through the priest’s veins, and he forced himself to remain calm. 

 

“I don’t think you want to do that, Stephen.” He replied, his voice carefully level. “You’re not a killer.” 

 

The harsh voice of the newcomer pulled Sullivan and Eve from the kitchen, and Stephen’s face contorted with rage when he clapped eyes on the Inspector. 

 

“You don’t know that, Father..” he shoved Lady Felicia from his hold to the floor, pointing the weapon now at his intended target. 

 

Father Brown didn’t think twice about moving with the line of sight, between his friends and the gun. He ignored Mrs. McCarthy’s look of abject terror and Martin’s warning “Father..”

 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Stephen warned, his face a picture of torment as he looked at the priest “Move out of the way.” 

 

“Stephen, stop this damn nonsense! You’ll have to kill everyone in this room to get away with this!” Eve cried out from the back of the crowd. Martin stood protectively in front of her, but she looked around his shoulder to her brother’s eyes. 

 

Father Brown saw a flicker of something on the young man’s face, and he was filled with hope. 

 

But it was fleeting, for sure. 

 

“You _traitor_ —“ Stephen cried “You deserve it as much as him! Fraternizing with the _enemy_ , filthy _whore_!” 

 

“The _enemy_?! The enemy of _who_ , you stupid idiot?!” She fired back, and the Father could feel this spinning further out of control. 

 

“ _Eve_.” Sullivan hissed, thinking the same thing as Father Brown.

 

“It was you standing in the Inspector’s garden last night— you saw them together.” Father Brown stated, and watched the flickers of emotion across this lost boy’s face. 

 

“You’ve been following me?” He demanded breathlessly, and the Father shook his head. 

 

“You’d have to be daft to go out in the storm like the one we’ve had— you left a cigarette butt under the window Martin had re-locked... you unlatched it, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for a reply “It was a decent plan after the first attempt failed— break in through the window, stab him in his sleep. Less work fighting him, not to mention, you won’t have to look into the eyes of the man you _murder_...” 

 

“And then you saw them through the garden window— your only sister and the man you blamed for the death of your brother. That must’ve made you very angry...” 

 

“He-He killed Terry! It’s his _weakness_ , his raid, _his_ —“ 

 

“Terrence _killed_ _himself_! He was manipulated by Everett Bayler at a time when he was lost! Like you, like _Martin_ , he needed something to believe in. Deep down, I know you know that.” 

 

“SHUT UP! You’re _lying_!” Stephen cried, distraught, gun shaking in his hand. 

 

He was distraught, openly weeping, but something didn’t sit right in Father Brown’s mind. He’d counseled many a family member through the grief of losing a loved one, and the young man before him was not simply in mourning. 

 

He was afraid. 

 

“I know you’re not a killer, Stephen, because you’ve missed a fatal blow twice in less than two days. You keep trying and trying even though your heart isn’t _in_ _it_ — so what’s the reason?” 

 

“The news of your transfer reached The Regiment at the perfect time, _Inspector_.” Stephen spat, ignoring the priest “Bayler sends his regards.” 

 

“When did Bayler first reach you? After Terrence’s death? You’re a man of intelligence, don’t let some career criminal manipulate you into committing this horrible thing! You've been contracted to kill this innocent man... Inspector Sullivan is _not_  responsible for your brother’s death. Your sister is _happy_  with him.” He took a chance, slowly moving forward, making all his friends lurch a little in anxiety. The Father prayed silently, hands still up placatingly “Tell is where Bayler is, Stephen. Put down the gun, you don’t want to do this!” 

 

He shook his head vigorously, tears streaming. 

 

“Stephen—“ 

 

“Get _back_! I’ll kill you all, he needs to _die_!” 

 

“ _Martin_ _Sullivan_ is an _innocent_ _man_.” Father Brown repeated vehemently, putting his hand on top of the gun and squeezing the young man’s hand “If you put down your weapon and tell us where Everett Bayler is, you will be kept _safe_. He won’t be able to hurt you— you’ll stay right here until he is behind bars.” 

 

“Father—“ Martin started, but Eve held him back. 

 

“Martin, don’t go near them.” She sounded meek, afraid for the first time since the Father had had the pleasure of meeting the young woman. 

 

It took a long moment of pleading with every fiber of his being, praying with all his might, before Stephen Bradbury finally relinquished the pistol. 

 

The eminent danger and fear in the presbytery sitting room evaporated. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The morning was cold and brisk, but the snow had finally come to a halt, and the radio was saying that it was last of it for at least that week. Father Brown was beginning to agree with Lady Felicia, wishing for the sun to come back and warm their frigid bones. 

 

At least the weak and watery sunshine had managed to warm the phone lines. Sergeant Goodfellow was there in double time after a call from Mrs. McCarthy, and it took the better part of that day to get all the stories documented. A call was placed to Scotland Yard with regards to the apprehending of Everett Bayler. 

 

Sid was a bit bruised, but overjoyed that his nose wasn’t actually broken. Martin and Eve were veritably plastered to each other— at least to Mrs. McCarthy’s mind. Father Brown thought it was a beautiful thing to see such a lost man a bit more found. They were gathered around the kitchen once more by noon, where Lady Felicia and Mrs. M were back to bickering about what was acceptable behavior for unmarried couples. 

 

“Speaking of being unmarried...” Martin started, glancing over at Eve with a small smile more genuine than Father Brown had ever seen. She smiled right back and they all waited for what they knew was coming. 

 

“We were wondering if you would do the honors, Father Brown.” Eve finished. 

 

A warm feeling of content settled throughout the priest’s body at the words, seeing the two faces of people who had the power to repair each other’s souls. 

 

“It would be my pleasure.”

 

There were congratulations all around— except Mrs. McCarthy, who could only say: “I hope you weren’t planning on wearing white, Missy.” She was grinning. 

 

Sid chimed in, chuckling as he smacked Martin on the back just a bit too hard to be goodnatured "And you’re hardly off the hook. You'll have to make a confession!" 

 

Martin's face went blank, eyes comically wide. 

 

" _What_? I've never confessed in my life, I don't know how-"

 

”Well, it’ll be long one— I’ll bring us a thermos of tea.” Father Brown joked.

 

"Oh don't worry, Love," Eve laughed "just about everything you've done in the past ten years is a sin. We'll make a list!" she pecked him on the corner of his grimace, and he downed the rest of his wine. 

 

All was well. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet, tying up loose ends and getting ready to write you a fluff piece or two. So, keep an eye out for those and comment if you enjoyed this story! I sure loved writing it.

 

“Well Father, let’s get this over with.” 

 

“That’s the spirit.” 

 

Spring was full of welcome sights: bluebells in the defrosting gardens, the children playing by the schoolyard, and the emergence of lighter jackets. Lady Felicia had nearly skipped into the presbytery the first day she could wear her pumps again. 

 

The best of all, however, was the sight of Inspector Martin Sullivan strolling up the path to St. Mary’s, a smile on his face and lipstick on his collar. 

 

“I spy something to confess already!” Father Brown winked, grinning at how his friend dragged his feet at the mention of the long-awaited _confession_. 

 

“The Future Mrs. Sullivan sends her regards.” he gave a cheeky smirk and slid into their usual pew. 

 

Father Brown took his seat beside him and unscrewed their thermos of tea. 

 

These “lessons” with Martin had quickly become one of the best parts of the week. He’d made it clear nearly every time they sat together that he had only let the Father lecture him over these past months for Eve’s sake, so she could marry someone who at least understood Catholic custom. The father, however, suspected that the stubborn younger man was actually starting to enjoy it. 

 

“The day is nearly here— how are you feeling?” 

 

“Never better, actually. Eve headed off to Montague this morning— all that bad luck to see the bride and all...” he rubbed his hand into the scar on his palm “Honestly, Father— this is a lot of to-do over what's practically an elopement.” 

 

“An elopement? No, Martin— your decision to keep the ceremony small just makes it a _small_ _ceremony_... Are you sure you don’t want to notify your families, though? There’s still time.” He reminded, not for the first time since wedding plans went underway. 

 

Martin fixed him with a hard glare. 

 

“I won’t mention it again....” The Father said, raising his hands in a  placating gesture “Though I’m sure Stephen could do with a phone call—“ 

 

“ _Father_.” Martin barely raised his voice, but it echoed in the stone sanctuary “Eve writes to him regularly in London, but her decisions are her own. If she doesn’t want him at the wedding, neither do I— and, frankly, I don’t.” 

 

How far they had come from the _I don’t deserve you_ s and those fiery fights... Father Brown was starting to understand now, after taking such time to get to know their prickly inspector, what Eve had meant when she said Martin had been _different_  in Kembleford. He was more himself now. 

 

He had softened. The circles under his eyes were lightening, the scars of December’s events were healed up nicely, and other things were healing, too. Eve made him laugh— the first time they all heard it, Sid nearly inhaled his cigarette, and Mrs. McCarthy dropped a plate into the sink. Eve checked his ego and he mediated her legendary temper. 

 

A match made in Heaven.

 

The priest nodded, and made a mental note to have a chat with the young Miss Bradbury. There was no point to riling Sullivan up, not if he wanted to get from him what they had planned. 

 

He poured them both steaming cups of tea and studied Martin’s anxious face. He was staring at the statue of the Holy Mother just by the pulpit. 

 

“Are you ready, Martin?” He asked after a slow sip. 

 

The other man hissed out a long breath through his teeth, rolling his eyes. 

 

“I have to, I suppose...” he groused. Father Brown couldn’t help the smile that turned the corners of his mouth. Just a little. 

 

“I suppose you do.” It had only taken two months and some _persuading_  by Eve to get him this far. “And do remember that I am absolutely bound in confidence. You may speak freely.” 

 

Martin wasn’t a believer— he may not ever be. However, being born a Catholic and marrying one as well, Father Brown couldn’t deny that it would be wise to purge himself of his sins before embarking on this new chapter. 

 

Sullivan reached into his suit pocket, then, and unfurled a rather large sheet of notebook paper. 

 

“Um. Eve had to talk me through it a bit...” He started, clumsy as a baby lamb. It was still odd, to see such change in a man so proud. 

 

The things we do for the ones we love. 

 

“She wrote me a list. She was serious about that—“ he grinned, shaking his head “Aren’t we supposed to do this in there?” 

 

He gestured to the confessional booth, and Father Brown was the one fixing him with a look, then. 

 

“We can if it would make this any easier for you, but I thought this would be less formal. Stop stalling, Martin.” 

 

Lips pursed, Martin went back to staring ahead, Mary looking back at him. 

 

“ _Fine_. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.. this is my first confession.” 

 

It took an exceptionally long time. Ever the precise one, the younger man went categorically down the impressively sizable list his betrothed had written out with him. They drank the entire thermos of tea, and Father Brown’s eyes nearly popped out at some of the things the straight laced inspector had somehow found time to do in his relatively young life.  

 

When, finally they got through to the end, Father Brown somehow still had questions. 

 

“Of course you do...” Sullivan rubbed his hand down his face. 

 

“When and why did you stop attending mass?” He asked, and Martin looked at him like he was about to spout off about the many things that were _none of the Father’s business_ , but he stopped himself. Visibly seeming to swallow his pride, Martin finally looked over to him. 

 

“I was five. My mum was the Catholic one, she’s the only reason I was baptized at all, but she was in a factory accident. I couldn’t go to church after that.” He sounded mournful, and Father Brown took a chance in placing his hand on the other man’s back. 

 

“Your father...” he nodded. 

 

“He didn’t want me going there. Or anywhere, really. Mum tried to help, but there was nothing that could be done.” 

 

“I thought you said your mother was in an accident?” 

 

Sullivan looked straight ahead at Mary, whether he knew it or not, shaking his head “Paralyzed from the waist down. She held out until I was thirteen.” he sipped his tea and breathed a long sigh that left him sagging against the pew “Any more _invasive_  questions?” 

 

The father shook his head “I’m sorry for your loss..” He squeezed the man’s shoulder “Thank you for your honesty, Martin.” 

 

“All for Evie, Father. It’s all for her.” He replied, a soft smile gracing him again. Father Brown led the way out of the pew, only to look back and see Martin sitting there. 

 

“Is there something else?” 

 

“Before you lift your confessional seal, or whatever, there is one more thing:” his smile twisted a little, a telltale sign of something difficult for the inspector to say. “Thank you, Father Brown. You did my job for me while I was... blinded to the human side of the evidence, all this year. You... your  _meddling_  prevented my miscarriages of justice, and I... You saved my life. Thank you.” 

 

Martin nodded, satisfied that he had said it properly, unable to look him in the eyes. 

 

There was a great swell of pride and compassion that filled Father Brown’s chest like a cresting wave. He grinned and clasped his friend’s hand in both of his as he stood and smoothed his suit to depart. 

 

“It’s always a pleasure, My Friend.” He said. 

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.” Sullivan replied, tipping his hat. 

 

“Tomorrow, indeed.” The priest confirmed. He watched the younger man’s back as he strolled back up the path into town. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Well, aren’t you a _picture_.” Mrs. McCarthy gasped beside the Father as Sid helped Eve out of the Rolls at 11:55 the next day. 

 

Lady Felicia adjusted her friend’s veil and handed off a beautiful bouquet of yellow and purple flowers. 

 

True to form, Eve had made her dress. The satin collar sloped off her shoulders, and drifted into intricate patterns of swirling lace and satin. It fit her curves just shy of what was appropriate for a Catholic wedding, but Father Brown would overlook it for the glowing smile on her lips. 

 

“Nervous?” He asked, grinning back at her. 

 

“Is he still in there?” She joked. 

 

“Waiting with baited breath.” 

 

“Then no. Never been more certain of the future, Father Brown.” Eve beamed, the sun reflecting off her hair and her ( _ivory_ ) dress, reminding him of the golden woman he’d first met. 

 

She looked much happier now. 

 

“Well, let’s not keep the chap waiting, then— never know if he’s gonna transfer again.” Sid smirked, straightening his crooked bow tie. 

 

“Sidney, _please_.” Mrs. M scolded before leading the scruffy man and Lady Felicia into St. Mary’s. 

 

Eve wasted no time in taking the priest’s arm, squeezing it as the music started. 

 

“Shall we?” She urged him on. 

 

Father Brown loved weddings. He loved the devotion, the sacrifices and the gains of two people who loved each other enough to commit to spend an eternity together in God’s light. 

 

He especially loved that first moment, walking by a bride’s side, when the groom caught his first glimpse.

 

Inspector Sullivan, once cool and arrogant and aloof, didn’t disappoint. 

 

Martin’s posture was relaxed and confident, but he stood at attention when Eve stepped into the church. His eyes were wide and soft, maybe a bit teary or just a trick of the light. Father Brown was blessed enough to get to bare witness to the moments when people found the Lord in each other, and he was grateful. 

 

The ceremony was short and sweet, if a bit rushed. Charged by the undeniable energy of a couple that wanted nothing more than to rip each other’s clothes off. 

 

“...You may kiss your bride.” in fact, resulted in Eve kissing the groom— hard enough that they nearly stumbled backward. 

 

“There’ll be a baby in that cottage by Easter, mark my words.” Mrs. McCarthy said at the Montague house for that evening’s dinner. 

 

“No way— I give ‘em a fortnight. Tops.” Sid winked, gesturing to the two at the other end of the table, hand in hand, faces close. 

 

“I’ll take that bet.” Sergeant Goodfellow chuckled. He and Sid shook on it, much to Mrs. McCarthy’s chagrin. 

 

Father Brown made eye contact with Martin, who had thankfully heard nothing of any babies or bets. He was smiling, surrounded by friends and safe at last. His walls were crumbling down to reveal a happier, more adjusted man and maybe he and Eve would have a crew of children running around, or perhaps they would have none. No matter what happened from then on, the priest was quite certain that Eve had had profound accuracy when she said she had never been so certain of the future. 

 

Father Brown was certain that their marriage would be full of blessings. 


End file.
